


Misc Ficlets

by fictionalfaerie



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fic Snippets, Gen, M/M, multiple stories, writing exercises
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-02
Updated: 2016-09-21
Packaged: 2018-02-23 14:11:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2550434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fictionalfaerie/pseuds/fictionalfaerie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Short ficlets that I didn't feel quite warranted their own listing~</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day 1 - Sharp - Captain America

**Author's Note:**

> Bestie Prompts #1 (Nov) | Sharp  
> Captain America  
> No pairings
> 
> I kind of started out with a direction in mind- and I think I kind of lost it? I kept the feel, but didn't go where I'd intended to.  
> Mostly this one is about sharp edges and picking up the shards of your life.  
> It was pretty fun experimenting with my writing on this one.

It’s easy enough to keep an eye on the mess Hydra and SHIELD collapse into, to keep tabs on them and stay a few steps out of their way while he figures out who he is and what he’s doing. Who he was and what he’s going to do? Who he will be and what he has done? Who he… well, staying off of SHIELD and Hydra’s radars- if they even are two radars- is just about the only easy thing. 

\---

He steals what he needs- clothes, a suitcase, money, food, sunglasses, gloves. It’s easy, remarkably easy. People are far too comfortable in their lives. They clearly think they’ve covered all of their bases, security wise, and he just slips in and slides back out. That’s easy, too. Evading capture and stealing things. Two things that are easy. 

\---

He makes the decision to leave- DC’s a hellhole, filled with things he doesn’t want to deal with. He thinks about getting a map, throwing a knife at it, seeing where he’ll go, but instead he stands in front of the Smithsonian, glaring at the advertisement for the Captain America exhibit. 

Instead of heading inside, he chides himself for foolishness and moves on. 

He does that for three days before finally giving up and going into the place, twitching at every movement. The place is packed, completely packed. Apparently releasing all of SHIELD’s secrets just made people way more interested in this captain. 

He tells himself that he’s only here because of the pictures and videos, the physical aspect of it all. Easier to know your enemy and all that. That’d be three things, but he knows that one’s a lie. He can’t remember who’s the enemy anymore- the captain, the spider, or himself. 

\---

He doesn’t remember leaving the Smithsonian. 

His head… hurts. His head hurts. He can latch onto snippets of the visit, but just like the rest of his life, that’s all there is to it. Bucky Barnes’ eyes. That video and the way Captain America leaned into that sergeant and laughed. The way his fist creaked as he read about Bucky Barnes. The way his breathing quit being an instinct and he had to focus on it, think about it. 

He doesn’t remember leaving the Smithsonian, and as he looks at the crumbled exhibit program in his hand, he wonders what else he doesn’t remember. 

\---

He runs, and when he runs out of room to runs, he steals a car and drives. He goes until he’s exhausted, and then only stops to marvel at the feeling. He’s never felt so tired before. He’s never known what it was to stop, to breathe, to fight against his body, force it to stay awake. He’s never known how beautiful the idea of sleep can be. 

\---

He starts reading. Anything, everything. Whenever he stops to sleep or to lay low, he reads. 

In West Virginia, he reads headlines and news articles about Captain America’s recovery. In Kentucky, he reads everything he can about SHIELD and the direction it’s going to take now that nothing’s a secret anymore. Tennessee turns up some interesting library books and science journals on robotics, and he fixes the arm that’s been functioning oddly since his run in with the captain. Arkansas- the Widow’s meeting with the Senate subcommittee. 

He reads about each car he steals when he switches over. He picks up history books and biographies and books filled with conspiracy theories. He goes through magazines like crazy. Old sci-fi and romance novels end up taking up a whole second suitcase. 

Sometimes he wonders if this is something left over from Before, or if this is something that belongs to this new version of who he is…

\---

The dreams are the worst. He can deal with the nightmares, but the dreams… the dreams leave him jittery and shaking and terrified. 

They leave him angry and restless, so he does the only thing he can think of. He runs. 

He dreams of Brooklyn, so he drives to Texas. 

A baseball stadium with announcers and equipment that can only be from decades ago lands him in California; a tiny apartment with open windows letting in summer heat sends him to Wisconsin; the uniformed men screaming at him in Russian end up sending him to the Grand Canyon, where he braces his arms against a railing and revels in the way the wind feels against his face. France, Germany, Russia- Tennessee, Louisiana, Florida. 

\---

It’s months before he sees Steve Rogers again. Sure, his face stares up at him from magazines and newspapers, but it’s drastically different. Seeing him in person brings all of those pieces of memories rushing to the surface, stinging like shrapnel. 

Rogers is leaning against the desk at the hotel he was foolish enough to splurge on last night- he knew, even at the time, that he shouldn’t give in and shouldn’t let his guard down, should stick to the trashy motels that didn’t blink at cash and the truck stops that didn’t give a damn about beat up cars parked in the shadows- talking to the clerk and clearly asking questions. 

He doesn’t need to hear them to know what they’re about. 

He pulls his bag tighter, glad he decided to just grab the room for a single night, glad that he got delayed watching those men in the park sketching, glad he didn’t make it here and have the chance to do something foolish like book another night before Rogers showed up. 

He almost punctures the motorcycle’s tires as he passes it, but he doesn’t want to let Rogers know just how close he was. 

Hours later, his mind is still howling and his fingers are still flexing tight around the knife he should have pulled out. 

\---

Sometimes he wakes up shaking- memories of cold and pain and cold and hunger and cold and rage and cold and rage rage rage rage rage…

\---

He keeps running, keeps hiding, keeps reading. He reads everything he can find on Captain America. His world narrows to snippets of memoirs and student dissertations, crazy theories and wacked out comic books that can’t even get the name right. He reads history books and propaganda and he hates it, hates every word of it, because none of it’s right. Oh, sure, most of them get at least a few things right, even the craziest theories, but he knows it’s all wrong because none of it- none of it none of it none, none, none- is really about that boy he keeps dreaming about. 

\---

He dreams in red. He dreams about boys with bloody noses and when he wakes up, he remembers how badly he wanted to black their eyes, even though he knew he couldn’t beat enough sense into them to get them to stop. He dreams about couches with too many limbs crammed on them and being strapped down to hospital beds and being cold, cold….

The first time he says that name, he’s waking up from a nightmare, twisted in the sheets and gasping out his own name as he wakes up. 

“Bucky.” 


	2. Day 2 - Cockatrice - Teen Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 2 - Cockatrice  
> Teen Wolf, all dialogue  
> Mentions of Jackson/Lydia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, day two was my prompt- Cockatrice.  
> I decided I must have picked it because I hated myself, so I added to that hatred by doing a dialogue heavy piece.  
> And then, when typing it up (a few days late, oops- Kindles & typing don't get along well, so some chapters are going to be late) I went ahead and took out everything BUT the dialogue. 
> 
> Canon is largely hand-waved, as I have only watched through season three. I keep meaning to catch up, but I've at least read about what happened. I just kind of think it's all shenanigans, so y'know.

“This, this is what I mean when I tell you that you’re a trouble magnet. This is a perfect example of what I mean when I say that your life is insane, dude. Insane.” 

“Shut. Up.” 

“No, really, this is exactly it. Because this? This does not happen to normal people.” 

“Shut up and move your elbow. It’s in my face.” 

“Where would you like me to move my elbow to, then, Derek? Where should I move it to make things more convenient for you?” 

“Stiles, if you don’t move your elbow, I’m going to bite your arm off.” 

“I’m not buying into that threat, not right now. Because if you bite my arm off, that… that… that THING out there is going to smell the blood and come gallivanting in to kill us.” 

“Because, as it is, we’re being remarkably stealthy, and _that_ is what is keeping us alive right now.” 

“Oh, oh, no, no- you do not get to use sarcasm in this situation, right now, against me, do you understand me? We’re up this goddamned tree because of you. I don’t care why that thing isn’t attacking us right now, but if you decide you’re going to be a sarcastic asshole, I’m going to push you out of this tree, you jerk.” 

“Stiles, I swear, I am going to-” 

 

“Wait, hush, shut up, wait- where’d that thing go, anyway?” 

“...I don’t know.” 

“Use your wolfy senses and figure it out, jerk.”

“Gee, Stiles, that never occurred to me.” 

“That’s it, that’s the final straw, I am shoving you… out… of… this… why… are… you… so… hard… to… move… ugh…” 

\---

“Okay, so,it looks like this thing is a cockatrice?” 

“A cockatrice?” 

“A cockatrice, yes, quit interrupting me with stupid questions, Scott.” 

“How was that-”

“So, we’re going to need to hunt this thing down and kill it. And that isn’t going to be fun or easy.” 

“How do we kill it, Lydia?” 

“Well, supposedly, if you can show it it’s own reflection, that will kill it. Also, there’s some speculation about a rooster crowing killing it, but I’m thinking the reflection will be the easiest way to take it out.” 

“Has anyone heard back from Stiles yet? We need to know what Deaton has to say about whether this thing’s… stone gaze thing… is reversible or not…” 

“No word from him yet. But if we don’t get Jackson fixed, that thing better worry about me way more than it worries about you all.” 

“Okay, well, until then, no one goes out into the woods alone. If you have to go into the woods, make sure you’ve got someone with you and each of you should have a mirror. Keep your eyes low and be ready to shut them, rely on your other senses.” 

\--- 

“GET THE MIRRORS OUT, STILES.” 

“I… SHIT. They’re in my backpack!” 

“STILES.” 

“I DROPPED MY BACKPACK WHEN YOU GRABBED ME.” 

“STILES.” 

“This! This is NOT my fault! Not. My. Fault.” 

“I AM GOING TO KILL YOU.” 

“NOT IF THAT THING KILLS US FIRST, YOU AREN’T! Just get it!” 

“GO FIND YOUR DAMNED BAG, STILES.” 

“Fine, fine! Just… keep it busy!” 

“THAT’S WHAT I’M DOING” 

\---

“You assholes better be glad that your stupid plan worked.” 

“Our stupid plan was actually your girlfriend’s stupid plan, so don’t knock it that hard, jerk.” 

“If you’d killed that thing and I hadn’t been changed back, you guys would really regret it.” 

“Oh, would we? What would you have done, asshole? You were a statue.” 

“Shut up, Stiles.” 

“Whatever, Jackson. I’m going to go home and sleep for a week. I don’t want to hear from you guys for, like, three weeks, okay? I don’t care if a coven of witches and a- what do you call a group of vampires?- a group of vampires decide to have a gang war in the middle of the street. Do. Not. Call. Me.” 

“See you tomorrow, Stiles!” 

“...I hate you all.”


	3. Day 3 - Something Someone Told You - Harry Potter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 3 - Something Someone Told You  
> Harry Potter  
> Remus/Sirius

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Marauders are always and will always be my favorite.   
> So, when I was trying to figure out just what the best way to work with Nikki's prompt was, one of the things that went through my mind was how much it would suck to be Sirius and hearing all of these rumors and how he'd maybe deal with them?   
> Whoo?

The figure slumped at the desk is scarcely recognizable. Pale- paler than ever before- and thin, hair lank and lifeless, profile sharper than usual… it makes Sirius shudder. He shoulders the door the rest of the way open, though, sliding into the room and making sure that none of the photos are looking in his direction before letting the cloak slide off him and into the bag he’d slung over his shoulder. 

When he’s seen to that, he finally clears his throat. 

Regulus lets out a rough laugh, not even turning to look at him. “What are you doing here, Sirius?” 

“I ran into McNealy in Knockturn Alley. He said… he told me about… is it true, Regulus?” 

Regulus finally turns to look at him, and Sirius works at not flinching. When had his little brother grown up? When had the round-faced little boy turned into this sharp, tired man? 

“Is it true, Regulus?” 

In response, Regulus holds his arm up, letting his sleeve slide down so that Sirius can make out the fresh tattoo on his forearm. 

Sirius clenches his teeth, works at keeping his voice steady as he finds his words. “Regulus… you don’t- you can’t- you don’t really believe all that shit they’re trying to sell you, right? You don’t buy into that, right? You can’t.” 

“Sirius, you don’t get to tell me what I do, or can, believe. You haven’t- you haven’t known shit about me since you started Hogwarts.” 

“Listen, Regulus- it isn’t my fault that I got sorted into-” 

“No, Sirius. It isn’t your fault you got sorted into Gryffindor. But it is your fault that you let Mother and Father’s attitude toward you change your attitude toward me.” 

Sirius feels like he’s been slapped. “That is not-” 

“That is what happened, Sirius.” 

“...that’s not what this is about, so let’s just. Come on, Regulus. Come with me. We can get out of here, we can- we can get you away from this. There are ways, Regulus. We can get you out of here.” 

“I’m sorry, Sirius. I’m sorry that you aren’t Mother and Father’s golden boy anymore, and I’m sorry that you left, and I’m sorry that we drifted apart… but I am not sorry about this. I will never be sorry about this. You need to reevaluate your priorities, Brother. What side of this war are you going to be on?” 

“Who said anything about a war?” 

“Please. We all know that’s where we’re heading.” 

“...Regulus.” 

“You need to leave, Sirius.” 

\---

Remus thumps into the bed without grace, squirming until he’s under the covers and shoving his frozen toes under Sirius’ calves. Sirius prods him, but repositions just enough to let Remus fit perfectly against him. His head aches and his body’s too warm and he feels like the extra warmth from Remus makes him think maybe he’s going to explode, but he wouldn’t trade it. 

He shoves his face into Remus’ neck, huffing warmly, and asks, “How’d the meeting go?” 

“Fine, I guess,” Remus answers. “Lily sends her love and an offer of soup. James says to tell you that you’re just a faker.” 

Sirius laughs a bit, “Anything big I missed?” 

“Not really. We still don’t know what their big move is going to be. We still don’t know where their base of operations is. We still don’t know what his ultimate end goal is,” Remus answers, “But Albus said something about how we’re getting closer. Got an inside man or something.” 

He can feel Remus starting to doze off against him, but he can’t help answering that, can’t keep the question in, “An inside man?” 

“Mmm. Yeah. Like, a double agen’ or somethin’,” Remus replies, letters starting to drop and words starting to slur as he gives in to the weariness that Sirius knows he’s feeling. He’s been working so hard for the Order, taking care of Sirius while he’s been sick this week, going to meetings, dealing with the after effects of the full moon. 

Sirius almost feels bad about keeping him awake, but he can’t help it, he has to know. 

“Did he say who it was?” 

“No. Safer not to,” he says. 

“...d’you think it’s Regulus?” 

He feels Remus tighten his arms around him and a kiss pressed into his feverish skin before he gets his answer. 

“I hope so, Sirius.” 

\---

Remus finds him in the kitchen. He’s at the table, a half empty bottle of whiskey in front of him. He’s trying to muster up the energy to pour another glass, or maybe just hurl the glass at the wall and shatter it. 

“You heard, then?” Remus asks. 

“I was picking up some things for Moody. In Knockturn.” 

“Who’d you-” 

“McNealy. Kinda poetic, I guess.” 

“Sirius, I’m so- I’m so sorry. Is there- can I do anything?” 

“I don’t even know, Moony.” He feels his voice crack as he says it and he hates himself. He’s not sure why he’s upset, why he’s mourning. The last time he saw Regulus, he was torturing a muggle. But everytime he hears McNealy’s words roll around in his head again, here’s him throw out that snide “too bad it was your brother that died and not you”... all he can picture is the Regulus he grew up with. The one he used to sneak into the backyard with and watch the stars, the one who’d help him steal sweets, the one who cried when he watched Sirius get on the train the first time because he was going to miss his big brother…

Remus’ arms come around him, pulling him against him, and Sirius tries to tell himself he isn’t really crying.


	4. Day 4 - Image Prompt - Hannibal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 3 - Image Prompt  
> http://faerieishee.tumblr.com/post/101903963341  
> (I'm bad at linking and it's late, shh)  
> Hannibal, Daemon 'Verse (see my series, if interested- not needed to understand if not interested)  
> Really snippet-y/unfinished

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've handwritten most of these so far and have been waiting for a chance to type and post... this one I'd had intentions of typing last night and finishing up, but then I went to sleep instead, oops? 
> 
> It's largely not finished- VERY snippety.   
> I'm okay with that for the purposes of the "write everyday" aspect of the "challenge", but annoyed at it in that I wanted to finish something every day?   
> But, oh well. It is what it is.   
> I liked what I had in mind, so I'll hopefully rework this or add to it!

The phone’s ringer startles him awake. He’s tangled in the sheets, chest heaving from a nightmare he can’t quite remember, and it takes him a few tries to locate the phone itself. 

“‘lo?” he manages to croak into it, catching it before it shoots to voicemail. From his hip, Brina growls lightly as she wakes up. 

“Will?” the person on the other end asks, “I hate to wake you up, but-” 

“...wait, I… Beverly?” 

“Yeah, it’s me. I hate to wake you up, but Jack’s kind of… well, we’ll just say, you’re getting this call from me because the alternative is the call from him, and that is not how you want to wake up.” 

“...kay?” He’s sitting up now, scrubbing a hand over his face and trying to decide if he should make a pot of coffee or some tea, or just pick some up when he undoubtedly gets pulled out of bed and to whatever scene they’re wanting him at. 

“Right, so, are you awake enough to hear this?” 

He presses his face against Brina and pretends to scream, but answers with a solid, “Yes. Yeah, I’m awake. Go for it.” 

\---

Two hours later, he’s standing outside of a warehouse, frowning lightly at his now empty coffee cup, and trying to focus on Bev. 

“So, this is apparently the third scene like this they’ve found. They’ve kept it quiet, out of the news, to keep people from freaking out about it. The other two were found in abandoned warehouses, on anonymous tips. Nothing’s leaked to the news yet, and everyone in the department has kept it under wraps… but this warehouse is still very much in use by Mulavey’s. It was found by a guy coming in early to take care of a couple orders he slacked on and didn’t fill Friday. He came in, found it, freaked out, called the cops… and they called the FBI. We’re pretty sure they’re going to be remarkably cooperative, all things considered. Jack thinks they’re just happy to be able to hand this mess off.”

“What sort of scene is it?” he asks, glancing at her momentarily before looking back at the door. They’ve taped it off, and it looks like Jack’s done a pretty good job keeping out both local law enforcement and the agents that got sent in first. 

“It’s… messy.” 

“Helpful.” 

“Yeah, well. I’m not even sure how the hell I’d begin describing it.” 

“Okay. Well, let me head on in.” 

She hesitates, then nods, and waves him on. He can feel everyone watching as he approaches it, as he pushes the door open, as he tries not to let himself reel back at what he finds inside. 

Brina’s back starts to arch and she lets out a low growl as they walk in. 

At first glance, the warehouse entryway seems to be filled with a mixture of mannequins and mannequin pieces. A second glance shows that while that’s true, some of the mannequins and pieces are actual bodies and pieces instead. 

“Here,” Brina says, motioning to a footprint she’s found, right by the door. 

“Heavier than those over there,” Will responds, “The first one he left, before he tracked all the dirt off… he stood right here while he plotted out where everything was going…” 

\---

When he comes out, waving the cops and agents in, he heads straight to his car, leaning against it and closing his eyes. He gets a few moments to himself before both Jack and the sheriff approach him. 

“Get anything?” Jack asks, his shepherd standing between Will and the sheriff in a pretense of privacy. 

“Few things. Definitely male. There are a lot of footprints. Should be able to work with the dirt. More of that around the bodies, the pieces. He’s reenacting something. I just… I don’t know what. Are there photos from the other scenes?” 

“Yeah, we got a bunch of pictures back at the station,” the sheriff answers, lighting a cigarette. 

“Jack, you’ll get those for me?” Will asks, pulling out his keys and moving toward the door of his car. 

“Of course. Where are you going?” 

“Away from here, to think, see if I can figure it out. Unless you needed to supervise me?” 

“No, fine. Get out of here. Let me know if you figure this out.” 

“Always do.” 

\---


	5. Unnamed Bucky-Centric Bit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written as part of a December writing exercise~

The worst thing about being self aware is being aware of yourself. He’s aware of all these things that he’s certain aren’t new, but they may as well be, because he didn’t get to notice them before. He aches. He aches in ways he thinks he’s never ached before, deep down in his bones and joints. The arm’s the worst, though. Not only does it hang heavy, pulling at his body and weighing him down, but pain criss crosses over it, shooting and stabbing and screaming it’s way along veins that aren’t even there anymore- pain that he can’t soothe away, no matter what he tries. 

He does a bit of maintenance on it, using stolen tools to pry it open and prod at it. Library books and internet articles about machines help him figure out roughly what he’s looking to do- oil up gears and carefully clean around parts that nothing can name for him. It still sparks when he leans just the right way and whirs when he twitches it, but it doesn’t shock him anymore, so that’s an improvement. 

The books and computers tell him the other pain is normal for people who’ve lost arms. They tell him that he’s largely out of luck. Medication isn’t an option- even if his body would process it and he could find a doctor willing to prescribe it, the thought of shots or pills sends his whole body into alert. Massaging it at the base isn’t really an option, and when he tries he mostly just feels silly. He breaks five mirrors trying some mirror trick he reads about and decides that’s clearly a waste of his time. 

Memories flicker in, and he writes them down. It’s slow at first, a few pieces of scrap paper here and there with words or phrases jotted down. He eventually graduates up to a notebook, and before long he’s added a whole new bag to his luggage to carry the four notebooks he’s filled and the one he’s working on. He prioritizes that bag, even over the bag of weaponry, because he’s pretty sure that if anyone takes him, they’ll use every word he’s dared to write down against him. He can’t stop, though, afraid that if he doesn’t write them down, they’ll disappear for 70 more years. 

He always writes with his flesh hand, but sometimes it starts to cramp up and he’s forced to switch to the metal hand. It’s less precise- the words carved deeper into the pages, pens and pencils snapped. He learns quickly to switch to pencil before he starts with that hand, too many pages ruined by explosions of ink. 

Sometimes the memories leave him calm, almost smiling, thinking fondly about people he only vaguely knows. Others leave him curled in on himself, trying not to cry or scream or vomit. He writes it all down anyway. Maybe one day he’ll have enough to start putting together a cohesive picture of himself, figure out who he is. Who he was. Who he’s going to be. 

He keeps track of Rogers and his friends- usually just one, Wilson, but on a few occasions a second will join up (Barton, Romanoff, Banner, Stark… they all take a turn, a couple of days or a couple of weeks, one city or four). They’re not stealthy, despite what they think about themselves. Or, well, maybe they are- they just haven’t had secrecy carved into their bones quite like he has. He lets them get close, because otherwise it’d be a cluster, trying to track them in cities he’d abandoned while choosing new ones to hide in. He thinks there was probably a time he could do it without any issue, but with everything swirling around in his head as it is, he’s not sure he could swing it, thinks he’d lose them too easily. And one of the only things he’s certain of is that he doesn’t want to lose Rogers. 

Sometimes, when the memories are the worst, when he’s curled in on himself and shaking and can’t breathe, he focuses on Rogers. Thinks about wheezing breaths or mud covered boots, always being hungry because they didn’t have money or a supply run was interrupted by Nazis… he thinks about leaning against each other on fire escapes and under dense forest cover, little girls laughing and begging Rogers to draw them or burly guys teasing him about sketching the same gal too many times. He doesn’t have much issue superimposing that scrawny figure the Smithsonian tells him was pre-War Rogers with the Rogers chasing him across the continent, but every now and then one or the other shines brighter and throws him for a loop. 

He’s still got the program from the Smithsonian, folded and crumpled a bit, but the pieces with Rogers’ face are clear as day. It lives tucked in the back of one of his notebooks, along with a few copies he’s made from a few books in libraries along the way. He only pulls them out after the worst memories, when he’s covered in tears and not sure when he even started crying. 

He thinks maybe, one day, after he’s figured out who he is, maybe he’ll step out of the shadows and let Rogers run into him. Maybe he’ll see how that goes… 

But for now, he gathers up his bags, winces at the damned arm and the sparks it lets out, and slides out onto the fire escape. 

Today’s just not the right day for it.


	6. Pizza Dog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written as part of a December writing exercise- Clint getting Pizza Dog, the non-canon compliant MCU version?  
> As much as I adore the stuff MCU's giving us, I largely pretend that most of it didn't happen because fic's more fun to read that way? And apparently to write that way as well. Oops. If I had to own up to it, I'd say this bit of head canon steals from Phil's Avengers stunt and after that pretty much veers away.  
> Not really part of anything, no intentions to be part of anything- just some head canon. 
> 
> **Warning** \- Lucky's story doesn't start out happy, so this is kind of frowny times with dogs at the beginning? I didn't go graphic, I hope, and kept his injuries kind of comic compliant? Just, you know, heads up if a beaten up pup is something you can't handle, even though his story ends happy? :D?

He’s walking home when he hears sees a flash out of the corner of his eye, like a knife being drawn or something. He’s got his arms full- it’s been a long day of shopping for holiday gifts and he’s got some leftover pizza he’s hoping he can talk Coulson into eating in what Natasha is sure to call a misguided attempt to fatten him up- but, hey, it’s not his fault Coulson’s looking so thin and drawn, okay? At least, that’s what everyone keeps harping on and what Coulson reminds him every time he catches him brooding on it. He’s gotten better about telling it to himself, too. But, regardless- hands full, tired and frustrated, knife heading into an alley.

He thinks he could just call the cops… but he also thinks that’s a great way to waste time and end up with someone’s blood on his hands. So he shifts everything onto one arm, balancing a bit, and tries to figure out what present will make the best weapon if he needs it, all while heading nonchalantly toward the alley, hoping he’s not calling attention to himself and drawing more people to this unknown danger.

It’s a couple of punks- barely out of their teens, he’d guess-, accents thick and cruel as they laugh quietly to each other, and they’ve cornered some dog- one of them’s holding a stone and is probably responsible for the pieces laying around it, whereas the other one’s got a pocket knife out, tapping it against his pant leg. It’s hunched down, teeth bared, looking like maybe it’s growling at them even though no sound’s coming out. It also looks like maybe it’s had the shit beat out of it. The terror and desperation rolling off of it is almost tangible it’s so thick, and it makes his free fist clench. It’s noticed him, but the boys haven’t, so he sets the bags down quietly and moves toward them. He pulls his phone out, taps a quick text to JARVIS to have some cops sent to his location, and goes about stepping in, stopping the boys from torturing this poor little dude.

He really only means to scare the jerks, but by the time the cops arrive, he’s got one cowering against the wall and is sitting on the other one’s back, holding his arm at a weird angle so he’ll quick swiping at him with that stupid little pocketknife. The cops take a statement, cart the jerks off, and leave him in the alley with the dog after he waves off their offers to call animal services. He’s seen enough injured animals being “rescued” to know that it rarely ends well.

He stays seated on the pavement, cocking his head as he looks at the dog, who’s at least quit baring his teeth. If Clint moves closer to it, though, it whines and tries to inch back. Eventually he remembers the damned pizza, and offers it up as a token of peace.

It works well enough, and he manages to scoop the dog up carefully. He thinks it’ll buck and bite and fight at the hold he gets it in, but it doesn’t. Instead it gives a sort of shudder and collapses against him, all of it’s fight leaving it at once. He lost the pizza, but ends up with an even more awkward load as he heads out of the alley, changing direction and heading to a vet JARVIS supplies him with when he texts to ask.

The dog’s in rough shape, but the good doctor patches him up. Broken leg, lots of stitches, missing a damn eye… He offers to call for someone to come pick it up, take it off of Clint’s hands, but Clint declines again. He waves down a taxi for the ride home, collapsing gratefully into the backseat, the dog mimicking him and letting it’s (heavily medicated) head drool all over his jeans.

\-----

He doesn’t necessarily keep the dog a secret as he just doesn’t really bring it up to anyone. He’s not worried about keeping it or anything- Lucky’s a charmer, he’s no doubt he’ll win them over. It’s moreso that… well, he’s never been allowed to have an animal before, and he doesn’t have any good rebuttals to the arguments he imagines being tossed his way.

No, he doesn’t have a clue how much work a dog is, thanks. No, he doesn’t have a plan about what’s going to happen if he gets sent on a mission or something. No, he hasn’t thought about looking into whether or not Stark’s set up a pet policy in the building. No, he doesn’t have a clue about what to feed a dog. No, he hasn’t figured out a name.

So, instead of owning up to what will undoubtedly be a barrage about how immature and remarkably not capable he is, he just doesn’t mention it.

\-----

Phil knows within the first day. Of course he does. He just smiles and scritches behind his ears and doesn’t say anything about it.

Natasha is the next to figure it out- the next day. It only takes that long because she was caught up in some weird friendly war all night with Thor and an Asgardian word game. She narrows her eyes at Clint, takes in the tilt of his chin, and disappears. When she reappears, she’s toting items of all sorts for Lucky- as Clint has named him. Dog bed, food, a few toys, dishes, a bone, leash, collar, and some shampoo. She drops it all on Clint’s table, barely missing his lunch, and proceeds to tell him all about the manful tears Thor wept as Natasha demolished him at a game she’s 90% sure he made up in the first place.

Banner comes next. Clint calls on him when the dog starts this weird wet sounding cough after four days. Bruce loves the little guy, and if Lucky weren’t so clearly attached to Clint already, he’d offer him up to Bruce. Instead, he thanks Bruce for his attempts at being a vet and cuts back on the human food.

Steve and Bucky are next to find out- Lucky gets loose while Clint’s trying to take him out to walk him and barrels into them. When Clint catches up, they’re both sprawled in the floor in the middle of the damned hallway. Lucky’s rolled onto his back, groaning in pleasure as the two rub at his stomach. When Clint calls for him, he lifts his head, huffs, and curls against Bucky. Natasha, who’s appeared out of nowhere, laughs at that and tells Clint that the dog clearly has a type.

Thor takes it in stride, having conversations with Lucky that he refuses to tell Clint about. He forgets what he even came to the apartment for, though, and hugs Clint closely before he leaves. Clint… isn’t sure what to make of that.

Stark’s last, and while he does put up a fuss over the whole thing, he can’t say too much, because he totally owes Clint for lying to Cap about who set the toaster on fire (taking the blame rather than foisting it on to the real culprit- a sleep deprived Tony). Also, everyone else adores Lucky by then.

It works out pretty well that Stark likes him, because it means he can follow Clint everywhere now, thumping along with the cast and stealing as much food as he can.


	7. MCU/HP Fusion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written as part of a December writing exercise challenge in 2015~  
> Part of a bigger universe I want to eventually get out?

Jarvis is, surprisingly, not too hard to write off, when school starts back.

The Headmaster knows, of course, and has sworn not to tell anyone else, not even his head of house. He tells Tony that, as long as he abides by a few rules, he’ll keep the secret from them. The rules are obvious--- Tony himself must refrain from telling the other students the truth about Jarvis; he can’t use Jarvis to cheat in any of the subjects or sports or anything else he could possibly come up with to cheat at utilizing Jarvis; he mustn’t use Jarvis to break any rules whatsoever and then loophole his way out of detention. The rules are fair enough, and he doesn’t hesitate to agree to them. If he really wants to break them, it’s not like he’d let the Headmaster in on it anyway. He’s not keen on telling anyone about what happened- maybe Bruce, maybe one day, but Bruce is smart enough to keep his damned mouth closed. And, please, like he needs to cheat at anything. And when he undoubtedly uses Jarvis to break rules, he’ll definitely own up to it- and the only loophole he’ll exploit is throwing the “I’m owning up to it, not trying to get out of it” thing in the Headmaster’s face to get him to keep the secret because technically he didn’t break THAT rule… Easy enough.

The teachers either buy the story he tells them, or they realize that’s all they’re going to get since he’s got the Headmaster backing him up. The other students are maybe curious- a few probably don’t believe him, but they’re also smart enough not to push the issue.

It helps, sometimes, having a father who’s preposterously powerful and even more resourceful. It means you can waltz into school after Something Like That, with a wispy but definitely there Patronus trailing around you permanently, and no one will really push the issue. Sure, sure, there are whispers about how odd it is that the Starks were mysteriously missing from pretty much all of the news over the summer--- Howard likes to be in it as much as possible, Maria’s often featured in society articles if nothing else, and more often than not Tony lands in some article or another at least once a week… but other than “it’s just weird” no one can really call them out on having been up to anything that summer. A few people even whisper about how odd it is that when Howard _does_ start turning back up in the papers, Obadiah is mysteriously absent.

Tony had really assumed his father would be the biggest obstacle in his plan to take Jarvis back to school with him. However, he’d clearly underestimated… something… about his father. Probably his father’s desire not to have Tony and his weakness used against the family- or, well, to have someone try to use him and his lovely new weakness against the family, because no one knows better than Tony that Howard would just roll his eyes and leave Tony to find his own way out of it.

Maybe he thinks that having Jarvis around will act as a bit of extra protection? Maybe he just likes having everyone think that he’s just that badass, that he can conjure a Patronus to protect his son and keep the spell up for so long. It helps people think he’s just that protective and loving in regards to his son. Who knows. Tony’s leaving it alone.

When he’d approached his father, laying out his intentions about Jarvis and school, telling him that he planned to answer questions with “extra protection sent along by his father”, he hadn’t expected Howard’s warm response. A hand on the shoulder and a sincere nod, an almost heartfelt approval. But, he hadn’t argued the response. He’d just taken it and rolled with it.

\-----

The one thing Tony keeps totally secret- from his father, the Headmaster, the teachers, the other students- is how Jarvis is totally more badass than everyone thinks.

Jarvis can talk.

Tony’s done so much reading on Patronuses, his whole life, since he first heard of them and thought they might be handy to have in his arsenal. It’s one of the first spells he memorized, and as soon as he got his wand it was the first spell he started practicing in private. He’s always prided himself on just how much he knows about them. Every obscure reference in every obscure text, he’s scoured it and committed it to memory.

That’s one of the reasons that he knows he isn’t the first case of Permanent Patronus. It’s not explicitly described, but there are references that can only be Patronuses at least five times in the history of magic. Well, five times now.

Through all of that reading, all of the studying, though, he’s never found a case quite like Jarvis. Sure, that doesn’t mean there hasn’t been one, but there’ve definitely been no recorded cases. He thinks maybe one day, near the end of his life- if he gets a chance to realize it’s coming and doesn’t just get murdered in his sleep one day- he’ll write down all that he knows about Patronuses now. Maybe. Maybe he’ll just take it to the grave and come back as a ghost and give a big middle finger to everyone and refuse to tell them about it. He’ll have to wait and see.

Anyway, he knows that there have been no other (recorded) Patronuses quite like Jarvis. For one thing, most are either wispy and not quite formed, or formed. None of this back and forth at will stuff- although it is handy for Jarvis, who goes a bit incorporeal when it suits him, in the eyes of others, making it look like perhaps “Howard’s” spell isn’t quite as strong as everyone thinks.

He also knows that no one’s ever, ever, ever reported on a talking Patronus. That’s his favorite thing, the one he wants to guard most and yet wants to gloat and brag and cheer about. Jarvis is a chatty fellow, with all of Tony’s knowledge and then some, as he retains all the bits Tony’s not really great at calling up. He also spends his time drifting through books when Tony settles in at the library, or bookstore, or near enough to either that Jarvis can head that way. He picks up a lot. It’s super helpful, all things considered.

\-----

He tells Bruce. It only takes a few months, and it’s after a particularly bad full moon, and he does it to… not quite cheer him up, as that’s certainly not the word, but moreso to make him feel less alone about having this awful horrible secret. To show him that for all that Tony’s been his friend, he has certainly been a spoiled child who didn’t understand what it was like to have to hide Something Like That. But now… now he knows.

He tells Bruce about Obadiah, about the spell, about the new glowing light inside of him that aches if he thinks too hard about it. Bruce doesn’t judge him when he starts crying halfway through, and when he swears secrecy, Tony believes him without a doubt.


End file.
